


The Luck of Frohike

by glinda4thegood



Category: Lone Gunmen
Genre: Banshees, Gen, Leprechauns, Pooka - Freeform, mythological creatures, x-files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:22:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Melvin Frohike finds he's related to someone with an Irish heritage by the name of O'Hickey. Mulder & Scully get sucked into the bedlam; Scully rides a Pooka. A wake and Irish music are enjoyed at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: **The Luck of Frohike**  
Author: Glinda  
Rating: PG-13, adult humor and language  
Disclaimer: Characters REclaimed from the great Chris Carter dustbin. Personal satisfaction only.  
Timeline: Post S.R. 819 - just after Skinner's exposure to nanites.

Physical Surroundings: I've given the Gunmen their own bedrooms. If you turn to the right after you step through the front door there's a section of apartment that runs parallel and behind their work area/kitchen space. It begins with a small living room, and is attached by a long hall to three rooms each big enough to contain a bed, with the bathroom at the end of the hall roughly in back of the kitchen area.

Credits: _Irish Cures, Mystic Charms & Superstitions - by Lady Wilde_ (whence came the explanation of red wind of the hills) _Spirits, Fairies, Leprechauns, and Goblins - An Encyclopedia - by Carol Rose_ Song lyrics from _The Parting Glass_ and _The Moonshiner_

Inside jokes: It helps if you've seen the movie _Conspiracy Theory_ and know that the Tuatha de Danaan, the Daoine Sidhe, are children of the Goddess variously called Anu, Danu or ... Dana.

**March 10, 11:59 p.m. - Lone Gunmen HQ**

"Let. Me. In."

The familiar, slightly hoarse voice alerted John Byers to the presence of Fox Mulder outside their front entrance. Mulder's fisted hand thudded against the door three times. There was no real force behind the rather limp summons.

A quick inspection of Mulder's appearance, relayed by the camera above their door, revealed deep lines around bloodshot eyes, the dark blush of beard stubble, and a suit jacket that had evidently been pressed using a waffle iron. The condition of the jacket made Byers wince.

Byers typed a command on his keyboard alerting the new security system that he would be manually unlocking the front door. A timer appeared on the screen, counting down the seconds he had to accomplish the procedure. Frohike’s insistence that they prevent unauthorized entry even from actions taken inside their fortress were irritating, but probably necessary, Byers admitted to himself. The raucous alarm that sounded if the command was not entered, or if it took longer than three minutes to manually unlock the front door, had sounded frequently since their last security upgrade. Langly either forgot the new procedure, or more likely chose to ignore it. Frohike’s explosions following alarm shutdown seemed to entertain Langly.

"You look pretty rough." Byers stroked his own neatly-trimmed chin as Mulder pushed past him.

"Thought I might catch you in your jammies." Mulder’s eyes went toward the glow from several monitors in the next room. "You alone?"

"Yes." Byers worked his way back through the deadbolts. "I was looking at Skinner's problem."

"Good." Mulder collapsed into the nearest chair. He pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. "I brought copies of all the tests Scully ordered. But the blood samples were gone."

"Frohike didn't tell you?" Byers accepted the envelope gingerly. It was damp. "Langly got lucky. St. Katherine's still had a sample they took from Skinner after he was admitted. But Langly thought someone might have been at St. Katherine’s while he was there, looking for the same thing.”

"I hope they didn't stick around to confirm that." Mulder rubbed his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. "You guys have to be careful."

"We are always careful. Do you have a headache, or just another caffeine overdose?" Byers asked.

"What I've got going on in my head would make the sound track from Armageddon seem like a New Age meditation CD." Mulder reopened his eyes to pink slits. "I meant it, Byers. They seem to know everything about Scully -- about me. We have to assume They know who you are, and where you are."

"We’re taking every precaution we can think of." There was a quality in Mulder's voice that Byers hadn't heard before. Almost fatal acceptance. Fatigue and hopelessness. He blinked his eyes rapidly, hoping his tear ducts would not betray his control. His chest felt asthmatically tight. "I used to love technology. I used to love Star Trek. And the Jetsons ... god, what cool gadgets they had. Those were the days, when the future promised an exploration and celebration of the ability man has to uncover the wonders of our world and universe."

Mulder looked away, toward the light from the monitors. "Well, you've got a real live Seven of Nine on your hands, Byers. Any progress on de-Borgifying Skinner?"

"Cloning him would be easier," Byers said. "With what we know now, probably a lot easier."

Mulder slumped deeper into the chair. "Keep trying. So, where are the boys now?"

"Frohike is at a bar. Langly is at a concert." Byers turned and walked toward the computers. "We're all getting bad vibes, and it's affecting their behavior. It's like they've got a bad case of millennium fever."

"Millennium fever?" Mulder mustered some weary curiosity.

"Vague feelings of a cosmic shift in existence. Constant feelings of unavoidable impending doom. Visualizations of a bizarre and complete end to life as we know it." The hair prickled on the back of Byers’ neck even as he tried to interject a tinge of ridicule into the explanation.

Mulder heaved himself to his feet and limped into the computer room. "I know the feeling. It's similar to the one when you've just driven 100 miles from home and remember you left the iron face down on the ironing board, the tea kettle on the burner, the bathtub running and the starving pitbull exercising near a playground."

Shielding his action with his body, Byers opened the fireproof safe and placed Mulder's damp envelope on top of a stack of folders. He shut the door, twirled the tumbler, then spoke without turning to face the man behind him. "It's the feeling you get when you remember your best friend floating naked in a tank of goo with an alien tentacle crammed down her throat."

In the silence that followed, Byers thought he could hear his own blood pounding in his ears.

"That's the feeling. I wish I'd never told you about it." Mulder's voice was unutterably weary.

"You're beat. Go home. Get some sleep."

Mulder yawned, his stubbled cheeks and neck muscles stretching into a caricature of exhaustion. He wiped his eyes with his limp tie. "Did I say be careful? I don't want to lose Skinner, and I don't want to lose any of you."

"We are in complete accord with that sentiment." Byers typed in the door code. He touched Mulder's shoulder, a tentative gesture that felt odd but necessary, as he paused by the door. "We're all wearing the aluminum hats and lead shorts."

"That was a joke, right?" Mulder waited as Byers finished sliding the bolts. "Speaking of jokes, I meant to ask ... is there a cop living in this building? There was a horse outside, next to a street light."

"A horse?" Byers looked more closely at Mulder's eyes. "No mounted policeman would ever leave his horse alone in this neighborhood. It was hitched, not wandering?"

"I believe so. And I think it can take care of itself. It pulled its ears back and showed teeth. It's a big, black, evil-looking mother."

"I don't know what to tell you." Byers hoped he was doing the right thing, letting a possibly hallucinating Mulder out into the world. "If Frohike and Langly see it when they come in, we'll call animal control."

 

Frohike concentrated, as far as he was able, on keeping one foot moving after the other. Some small, worried part of his mind peered into the dark corners he wandered past. The warm, floating part of his mind that luxuriated in the glow from uncounted mugs of beer was oblivious to any existence of potential danger.

"T'was in D.C.'s fair city, I first saw a titty, and first groped the leg of sweet Molly Malone ..." Frohike crooned the words as he swung himself around a light post, pausing for a moment to attempt a tap maneuver he remembered from _Singing in the Rain._ He stumbled, lurched away from the post and resumed singing.

"Da dee dee, da dee dee ... my cockles, her muscles, oh my, oh my oh!"

"Ye bloody dhrunken idjit."

Beer bliss receded at the speed of light. Frohike yelped and backed away from trash cans camouflaging the rear entrance to their home.

The patch of darkness that had spoken to him moved from behind the cans. "Jaysus, 'tis a fine old song ye'r murtherin', O'Hickey."

"Erp!" Frohike blinked at the large black horse that walked toward him. The whites of its eyes and teeth seemed to glow in the alley's dim light.

"Ye've got the fam'ly gift for ixprissin' yersilf. And as like himself as anither pea from the same pod."

Frohike felt his stomach heave. "Drunker than I thought. Talking horse ..."

"Horse?" The beast snorted, spraying Frohike with saliva. "T'is a pooka I am. The O'Hickey family pooka, as matters stand. Himself will be in need of family, so I'll be hangin' with ye 'til he comes to find ye."

Keeping his back to the wall, Frohike slid along until he could ease the alley door open. He kept his eyes on the horse. "Sure. Nice and quiet and private behind the dumpster. Make yourself comfortable. Gotta go now."

 

Thunderous pounding at the front door brought Byers out of a nearly rapturous contemplation of Skinner’s bloodwork. A glance at the monitor showed Frohike dancing around the door as if in urgent need of a bathroom visit.

"Byers! Let me in. Now!"

Byers' fingers flew into the unlocking routine. He reflected they should really have Langly create a Rube-device that could simultaneously release or engage the deadbolts, for emergencies of a urinary nature. When he finally got the door open, Frohike staggered into the room, reeking of beer and fear. His eyes rolled upward, and for a moment Byers thought Frohike might pass out.

"What is it? Were you followed?" Byers gathered his resolve, ready to assess the threat and initiate safety measures that had recently been added to their living quarters. Would he have the will, Byers wondered, to destroy all the equipment and records on the premises if, when, the time came?

"Horse. Talked to me!" Frohike shuddered. "I'm not hallucinating, Byers. It spoke with an Irish brogue. It claimed to be a pooka!"

"Okay." Byers sighed. "You need to sleep it off. Mulder said someone left a horse in the alley. I'll call animal control right away."

"Erp!" Frohike tried to wedge himself behind the couch. His shaking finger pointed at an empty spot near the door. "Byers! It followed me!"

"There's nothing there. You're scaring me, Frohike. We've talked about your drinking before . . ."

Some force jostled Byers, sending him staggering into the couch. A fine mist, smelling strangely of beer and hay, sprayed his face. "What just happened?"

"Pooka. Headed into the kitchen." Frohike's eyes were twice their normal size, giving him the look of a startled owl. "It sneezed at you."

Byers extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. He could certainly hear the refrigerator door opening, and the clink of glass against glass. "There's someone in our kitchen," he whispered.

"Told you. Pooka." Frohike a made noise of disgust, and waved his thumb toward to door. "If you don't like it, get the hell out of here and find a pub."

"Excuse me?" Something was very wrong. With growing apprehension, Byers wondered if Frohike had unwittingly been exposed to some hallucinogenic chemical or biological weapon. A contagious weapon . . .

"He said all we had was piss-colored Yankee brew and wondered how any of us grew chest hair."

The logical, problem-solving gears of Byers’ brain went into overdrive. "If there is something in our kitchen, if you can see a creature I cannot ... why has it followed you home?" A thought occurred. “And why would Mulder see it as well?”

"Muldowney? That's the laddy buck that dropped in a wee bit back?" A disembodied voice spoke from the general vicinity of the kitchen. "He's got seeing eyes. Some o' the old ones perch on branches of his family tree."

"I think he's Jewish." Frohike looked and sounded more sober as each minute passed.

Byers realized he had followed Frohike's example, and backed himself against a wall. Definitely contagious. If he was having auditory hallucinations, visual would probably follow. "Where is it?"

"Moving toward the recliner." Frohike took a careful step away from the wall. "Why can't Byers see you? What's happening to your brogue?"

"I'm acclimatizing, lad. For a supernatural creature to continue to exist in this world, it must be reactive. T'is a death sentence to refuse change. The key is to manage and direct change, O'Hickey. A lesson humans must also learn if they wish to continue to exist."

Byers heard the disembodied words, and saw Frohike focus on the couch. One last attempt to suggest an explanation of their situation surfaced. Drunken ventriloquism?

"Your friend can't see me because I don't particularly want him to."

"Honey, I'm home!"

Startled, Byers' head jerked back to hit the wall.

"It's Langly," Frohike said. "Get a grip, Byers."

"Get a grip? I'm hearing things, you're seeing things.” Byers rubbed the newly tender spot on the back of his skull. “I'd love to get a grip."

“Hurry up. Gotta piss.” Langly scowled at the camera.

Frohike wobbled toward the computers.

“We can’t let him in. He’ll be exposed,” Byers protested. “Think it through, Frohike!”

“I’m not hallucinating.” Frohike sounded sober enough. “And I’ve hallucinated often enough to know I am not _presently_ hallucinating. Let Langly in.”

"Three boy-os living in this illigant istablishmint? Don’t mind me, lads. I'll just finish acclimatizing."

Byers gave up. "I don't suppose acclimatizing could include visibility?" He worked his way through the bolts with trembling fingers.

"Great concert!" Langly breezed in, eyes bright behind his smeared lenses. He stopped short, staring at the couch. "We got company?"

Byers shot the last lock and turned around quickly. A rather large, naked, muscular man with a wild mane of curling black hair, and calves the size of bulldog puppies stared back, looking completely at home occupying half their couch.

"You can see him now?" Frohike's eyes darted between Byers and Langly.

"Yeah. Why is a naked man sitting on our couch?" Langly used his low and deadly voice.

"Because a horse can’t?" Byers tried to organize his thoughts and remember what he could about Irish mythology. He noticed that although Frohike now seemed completely sober, his face was redder than usual. "Pookas are shapeshifters. Did you see him change?"

"Sorta,” Frohike shook his head. “It happened real fast."

"Thomas Cockle, at your service."

Cockle stood and extended a large hand toward Langly, providing a comprehensive look at his physique. An embarrassing moment. A rapidly constructed mental amalgam of Michelangelo’s David, covered with a healthy amount of sable-colored, curling body hair, and a dwarf python occupying the same space as the statue’s more intimate parts came and went.

"I would be a close frind of the O'Hickey family."

Langly stared at the hand, making an obvious effort to stare at nothing else. "Cockle? That’s a good one, nature boy. Who’s O'Hickey?"

"He means me. I think it's a case of mistaken identity." Frohike blinked his eyes rapidly. "I don't feel so good." He lurched off toward the bathroom.

"He'll be worshipping the porcelain goddess tonight. None of the O'Hickey's are overly good at holding their likker." The pooka shrugged and folded himself back onto the couch. "I'll just stay here 'til morning. We'll all have a bit of a palaver then."

Byers met Langly’s eyes. Impossible to leave a strange, naked intruder unattended on their couch, with full access to every bit of equipment . . .

“Sleep, lads. Wander off now and go to sleep.”

Sleep. Byers yawned and saw Langly remove his glasses and rub his eyes. Sleep would be a fine thing.

**March 11, 10 a.m. Lone Gunmen HQ**

" ... she wheels her wheelbarrow, through streets broad and narrow, crying Cockles! and Mussels! alive, alive, oh!"

Byers woke with a start, disoriented by fleeting memories of weird dreams. The sound of a resonant Irish tenor drifted under the crack at the base of his locked bedroom door.

"Pooka." He rolled off the bed, pulled on a waiting robe, unlocked his door and paused to listen for any indication the others were awake. Last night's events had been real? Byers stopped at Langly's door, tapped softly, then tried the knob. Locked. He continued to the living room.

Frohike occupied the recliner, puffy eyes firmly closed.

"I hope you like your eggs over easy, boy-o." The pooka stood in the kitchen doorway holding a large covered tray Byers had never seen before. "It was necessary to forage this morning. Miserable excuse for provisions to be found in that kitchen. I'll blame it on this being a bachelor establishment."

"Pookas can cook?" Byers followed an amazing odor into the kitchen.

A plate piled high with crisp bacon, glazed white and yellow eggs, and a stack of buttered toast appeared from under the tray as he watched.

"We're not usually domestic fairies, but me father and me mother were from slightly different stations."

"Mr. Cockle? My name is John Byers." His need to introduce himself, and identify the proper way to address a pooka made Byers feel slightly silly.

"Tom is proper. I know who you are John, and young Ringo as well. I'll be bringing the coffee next. Best try to summon O'Hickey back from slumberland." Well-defined muscles moved under the rolled-up sleeves of a white linen shirt as Tom transferred a second and third plate to the table. Clothing had also been foraged, it appeared. Byers was sure none of them had such a shirt, or a pair of comfortably worn moleskin trousers large enough to fit a statuesque pooka, hanging in their closets.

"Right." A sensation of euphoric hilarity clenched the muscles in his throat as he fought laughter. Byers took a deep breath and retreated from the kitchen. "Frohike." Byers touched the shoulder of his sleeping friend. "Wake up. Tom made breakfast."

"Holy granola. He's still here?" Langly peered into the living room, hair full of static and spiking wildly to one side of his head. His t-shirt said _Todd Rundgren, President 1984._

"Shit. Shit. Shit." Frohike's mouth worked against the obviously foul taste and texture of his tongue. "I feel so bad."

"The pain was well and truly earned," Tom called from the next room. "Now get yer arses in here and eat while it's hot."

Frohike eased himself out of the recliner. "Gotta use the can. Start without me."

 

Byers was on his second piece of toast, and Langly on his fourth egg by the time Frohike joined them at the table.

"Great coffee," Langly offered, pushing a mug toward Frohike. "Real cream. I mean -- real. Thick."

"Let's see if the black stays down first," Frohike muttered. His eyes were swollen and more than a little wild.

"It will, O'Hickey." Tom stood watching them eat, drying his hands on a dish towel. "That stye of a kitchen needed cleaning badly."

Byers nodded sympathetically. He did his best, but he couldn’t disagree with Tom’s assessment.

"What qualifies a supernatural creature to criticize the life-styles of others?" Frohike asked belligerently.

"It's a job." Tom said. "You're so much like himself. It pleases me no end to know the family has continued in the New World. Have you sired any sons, O'Hickey?"

"Sire? No!" Frohike choked on his coffee. "And quit calling me O'Hickey!"

Byers offered Frohike the plate of toast. "Try a bite. It will help your stomach."

"Wine is pleasant, unpleasant the price," Tom agreed. "Heed your friend, O'Hickey."

"Thank you for breakfast." Byers folded his paper napkin neatly and stacked his silverware on his plate. "Perhaps you'd tell us why you're here, who _himself_ is, and why you think Frohike is O'Hickey."

Tom winked one liquid black eye. "However he may style himself, yon lad is an O'Hickey. Himself would be the lad's granduncle, Dennis O'Hickey."

“Frohike?” Byers saw Langly steal the bacon from Frohike’s plate as he took a bite of toast.

"I don't know!" Frohike took a long swallow of coffee. "I know my father had one brother he admitted to, and that's the extent of any genealogical knowledge I have."

"Your grandfather was John O'Hickey. He was the youngest of five brothers: Dennis, Kevin, Brian, Michael and John. John had two sons. Patrick was taken by pneumonia and is buried in the family plot. Tim it was that left for the wonders of the New World, when he was but a beardless lad. That would be your father, O'Hickey."

"I don't believe it. My father was born in New Jersey." Frohike shook his head.

"You'll believe when you see himself. T'will be like looking in a mirror."

Byers frowned. "You said you're the family pooka, and you don't know where Dennis O'Hickey is right now. What makes you think he'll come here?"

"And where is he coming from?" Langly asked nervously.

"Somewhere on this great continent, but headed this way, I've no doubt. O'Hickey's been playing the vagabone more years than you've sucked air." Tom's face seemed to fade into shadow for a moment. "He inherited a smidgen of the Sidhe's span of years, you see."

Byers picked up his knife and inspected the shine on the finish. Their battered stainless steel appeared to have been replaced with real silver. "Are you telling us Frohike is the descendant of --?"

"Black Bob, the leprechaun." Tom laughed, a rolling sound like far-off thunder in spring air. "Stole himself a lass with hair like polished mahogany, skin like well-washed cotton, eyes like the silver-brown shadows in the bourn. Her name was Katherine. And Bob couldn't part with her, even though she aged as a mortal woman ages. He never kicked her back into the world. But their son was given over to be raised by a human couple. The O'Hickeys."

"This is such a crock," Langly said, fists clenched against his thighs.

"I knew that would come up eventually," Tom said. "I've no gold, lad. Just assorted skills, and most of them find little favor with mortals."

"We're not interested in gold." Byers kicked at Langly's leg under the table. "But you still haven't explained why you're here. Now."

"Ah. That would be because of the ladies." A discomfiting gravity entered Tom’s face and voice. "When they left home for passage to the New World, we knew his time was coming. Those of us who love Himself -- albeit we're mightily pissed at him for spending his final years on foreign shores -- couldna let him fly home alone."

"Sorting through the language ... you think he's going to die?" Byers asked.

"The ladies are never wrong," Tom said, with a mournful downturning of eyes, mouth, and posture.

"The ladies?" Byers quickly reviewed possible mythological answers. "Plural? You can't mean?"

"It's unusual, I admit. But the O'Hickey family is unusual." Tom straightened and grinned, a sly, prideful expression. "We've two banshees attached to our household, black and golden. Meg and Moll."

Frohike found his voice. "They’re coming here?"

"Undoubtedly they are already nearby," Tom said. "They travel light and almost pooka fast. But Meg and Moll are not much for socializing with humans."

"And you think Frohike's granduncle will be here soon?" Byers asked. "I don't wish to seem unwelcoming, but we have work to do, and there's not really room for guests."

"You won't even know I'm here. The place needs cleaning something dreadful. It awakens the domestic fairy in me blood. I'll just tidy a bit, and you can pursue your own pleasures. Are you done with that?"

Momentarily out of objections, Byers surrendered his dishes.

"You still haven't explained why he would be coming to see me," Frohike said.

Tom returned to remove more dishes. "You'll be Himself when Himself is gone. The O'Hickey. Dennis will have heirlooms to pass to you before he goes."

“Heirlooms?” Frohike stared at the pooka's retreating back. "Anything valuable?"

"More precious than gold."

"Can you be more specific?" Langly prompted.

Tom stood, hands on hips, dark eyes agleam with private amusement, looking nothing like any image Byers’ imagination supplied to illustrate the phrase _domestic fairy._

"That would be telling, lads, and that's not my place."

 

**March 12, 1 a.m. - Lone Gunmen HQ**

"I really think it's a software issue." Byers sat across from Langly, staring at the monitor reflected in Langly's dark-rimmed lenses.

Langly nodded. "The technology's beyond us. Unless we could steal it from somewhere. That means first we need to identify who developed the nanites, and who introduced them into Skinner’s blood."

"And so far?"

"So far nada," Langly pushed himself back from the computer. "Scully ought to go ahead and try the plasmapheresis."

"Skinner could die. And I didn't get a sense from Mulder that Skinner would be willing to go back into the hospital and try it."

"Man, he's as good as dead right now, with those things in his blood." Langly's words were blunt. "The question is, what are they going to make him do before he quits breathing again?"

"That's a good question. I can posit a number of nasty answers." Byers stood and turned away from his computer station.

"Where's the -" Langly dropped his voice to a whisper, "pooka?"

"He followed Frohike out around eightish." Byers considered the extreme tidiness of the living room. "At least he stayed away from the computers today."

"I think you could drink out of the toilet now," Langly walked past Byers into the kitchen. "I've never seen the bathroom that clean, even after you clean it."

"I'm going to bed." Byers refused to be insulted. "Will you wait up for Frohike?"

"Sure. I've got a movie I want to watch." Langly returned with a can of soda and a bag of chips. He looked at the carpet with an expression of grudging appreciation. "You don't think the pooka'll get pissed off if I crumb a little?"

"When he comes back, ask him," Byers said. "How many times are you going to watch Mel Gibson ogle Julia Roberts?"

"It's a good movie." Langly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his thumb. "We got a lot of good ideas from that movie. The whole fake your own death scenario could come in handy."

"Ideas? More like fantasies." Byers aimed a parting shot as he left the room. “Don’t think I don’t know you and Frohike pretend you’re Jerry and Scully is Alice.”

Langly grumbled a few barely audible words that Byers ignored.

“And remember to use the code before you open the door. If I manage to get to sleep, I’d like to sleep until morning.”

 

Frohike huddled against the far side of the booth. Under dim urine-yellow lights, the clink of glass at the bar, the rise and fall of laughter and conversation was a soothing blanket of familiar noise. He had sipped the same beer for an hour, and it was only the second beer of the night.

The booth was back toward the bathrooms. From where he sat Frohike could see the full sweep of barstools and bar, tables and booths that crammed the interior of his neighborhood watering hole.

He watched the front door obsessively, expecting the pooka to wander in. Tom had tagged along earlier in the evening on a tour through the bookstore, then suddenly disappeared when Frohike's attention was distracted by an altercation between some boys near the video shop.

"Taking it easy tonight?" The waitress smiled and slid a bowl of peanuts toward him. "You were pretty high when you left last night."

Frohike remembered her telling him to take care. "Yeah. Thanks." He selected a peanut, cracked the shell.

"Gosh." The waitress sounded startled. "You got a twin brother?"

Frohike choked on the nut he had just popped into his mouth.

"Except he looks older." The waitress took a step away from the booth.

Tom wound his way between tables and chairs, followed closely by a small man in a red vest.

Frohike slid out of the booth, every nerve in his body suggesting a hasty retreat toward the bathroom.

"You were right, Tom. He's a fine looking lad."

It was like looking into his own face ... with another twenty or so added years of wrinkles and white hairs. Frohike watched the Doppelganger slide into the booth, still undecided as to his most prudent course of action.

"Bring me a beer, lass. A Black and Tan would be most welcome."

The waitress leaned over the new Frohike, flashing cleavage. She smiled with more than professional interest. "The best I can offer is a mini-brewery porter."

"That'll do, you lovely thing."

The waitress nearly ran to the bar.

"Dennis O'Hickey, this is your grandnephew, Melvin." Tom bowed and grinned at the two men. "I'll leave you to get acquainted. There's fine sport to be had in this city, and the night's wasting."

"Behave yourself, Tom. You're a visitor here."

The pooka seemed to lose color and stretch sideways like a video experiencing tracking problems, then a large black horse was flicking its tail at one of the patrons seated at the bar.

"Damn it! Who did that?" The man went spinning off his stool.

The pooka neighed, and with a mighty spring cleared two tables, nosed open the front door and disappeared into the night.

The two men stared at each other.

"Here you are, sir." The waitress returned in record time to place a bottle of beer, a glass and a napkin in front of O'Hickey. "If you need anything else, just ask."

Frohike raised his eyebrows at the emphasis in her words. He watched her sway her hips as she walked away.

"What the hell was that? You put some kind of spell on her?"

O'Hickey poured dark brew into the glass. "No spell, lad. You just look into their eyes, smile, and think to yourself you're looking at the fairest face you've ever seen."

"You weren't looking into her eyes."

"I was at first." O'Hickey drained half the glass in a swallow. "Ah, that's better."

Light sparkled off beveled cuts on O'Hickey's wire-rim frames. Tufts of white hair nestled like dandelion fluff behind his slightly peaked ears. Frohike pushed his own hair back behind one ear self-consciously.

"Looking at you, I have to admit we might be related," Frohike said cautiously.

O'Hickey raised one shaggy, greying eyebrow. "Don't make it sound like you may not consider that an honor," he warned. "You're last of a noble line. And unmarried, are you? I was hoping I'd see signs of the Sidhe in your blood ... but your time is man's time, I'm afraid."

"How old are you?" Frohike asked.

"Birthdays mean little after the first hundred."

"Yet you look -- maybe 65." Frohike shook his head. "I'm still not sure this isn't some elaborate con."

"Now that would be fun." O'Hickey poured the rest of the beer into his glass. "Tom's good with cons."

"Tom said they think you're going to die." Frohike found himself blurting the words. "You look pretty healthy to me."

"T'is a matter of time, not health." O'Hickey patted his vest, pulled out a large golden pocket watch. "And speaking of time, perhaps you'll show me your abode. I've been on the road night and day for the last 72 hours, and I could use a wash and a nap." O'Hickey finished his beer and slid out of the booth. "Come on lad."

Frohike stood reluctantly. "Okay, but you're going to have to share the couch with Tom."

"Oh, he won't be back until morning. I've seen that look in his eyes before." O'Hickey laughed, and the noise in the bar died for a moment. "There'll be people in this city tonight who will experience a pooka's dark humor. Luck to them all!"

 

**March 12,- 3 a.m. - Lone Gunmen HQ**

The pounding and rattling noise woke Byers. He folded back his blankets and groped his way to the door, squinting back over his shoulder at the luminous dial of his alarm clock. 3 a.m.

"Whazzit?"

"Wake up. Wake up now!" It was Langly's voice, muffled but recognizably laden with hysteria.

Byers unlocked the door. "What's the problem?"

"He's in the shower!" Langly's irises were so large his eyes seemed solid black behind his lenses. "You've got to see him."

"I'm not looking at anyone in the shower." Byers pushed Langly toward the living room. "Calm down."

Frohike sat on the footstool, watching the end of Langly's movie. Byers could hear the noise of running water in the bathroom.

"Frohike's here, so Tom's in the shower?" Byers observed that Frohike avoided his eyes.

"Dennis O'Hickey showed up at the bar. He's in the shower." Frohike's casual words were belied by the twitching muscle in the corner of one eye.

"Your granduncle?" Byers glared at Langly. "You got me out of bed for this? I could meet him in the morning."

"You're usually up first," Langly defended himself, "and I didn't want you finding him on the couch ... unprepared."

"Unprepared?" Byers yawned uncontrollably. "I'm going back to bed."

"Sit down for a minute." Frohike switched off the television. “Please, Byers.”

The noise of running water died. Several quiet minutes passed, then the bathroom door opened.

"Is this your usual attire, lad? Are there no night flannels to be found in your closet?"

Byers felt a breeze move past his open mouth, and realized he was staring, paralyzed, at a small, aged apparition wearing one of Frohike's faded cotton shirts.

"Dennis O'Hickey, this is Byers, a good friend." Frohike said.

"Byers? Don't any of your friends have full names, nephew?"

Byers extended his hand. "John Fitzgerald Byers. I'm pleased to meet you, sir."

"A good boy! And a fine name!" O'Hickey clasped Byers' hand in a quick shake. "Tomorrow you're all going to explain to me why there are no lasses about to keep you company. But for now, I need my rest."

"Of course." Byers paused as Langly rapid exited without a word. The snap of a lock turning was audible to everyone in the living room. "Can I get you some more blankets? Pillows?"

"Most thoughtful, but I'll do very well."

"All right, then. Good night."

Byers locked his bedroom door more gently then Langly had. He sat in the dark, staring at the luminous dials on his clock for several minutes. The old guy ... if Frohike were to be placed in a dehydrator, shrunken and aged slightly, he'd look exactly like the old guy. O'Hickey. Descendant of a leprechaun?

Byers slipped his legs under the covers and tried to still his mind. He'd lived with these men, what was it -- nearly ten years now? Bits and pieces of their lives had been shared in that time, the flotsam that lingered after nights when everyone had one-too-many beer ... nights when they'd bandaged scrapes and tested the door locks, wearily sharing unspoken knowledge they were lucky to be alive. But to consider the possibility that Melvin Frohike might be related to a supernatural creature -- well, it was like finding out that what you thought was the 1000-piece jigsaw of the Unicorn Tapestry was actually a 3-D representation of St. Basil's.

Byers' interior vision of the tapestry dissolved into a waking dream of a coal-black horse with flashing red eyes. The slight scent of sulphur and sensation of acceleration lingered as his consciousness funneled into the dark tunnel of sleep.

 

**March 12, 6 p.m - Lone Gunmen HQ**

"Our old friend Senator Matheson is in the tabloid headlines today." Langly blinked, yawned, then pushed himself away from the computer screen. "I need a break, Byers. Check out dcdirt.com."

Byers filed one last letter and tidied away stray plastic clips and pens in the work area. He sat gingerly on Langly's still warm chair, fingers flying over the keyboard.

"Listen to this: Reported missing at 3 a.m. by his driver. Senator Matheson had just left the home of a close friend. As the driver opened the right rear door of the senator's car, he was forcefully pushed into the car by an unknown assailant. By the time the driver picked himself off the floor, the senator had disappeared.

"Law enforcement officers who questioned the driver and searched the grounds were surprised by the reappearance of the senator approximately an hour later. Senator Matheson was disoriented, disheveled and unable to account for where he had been. Insiders suspect the senator may have been walking off the effects of too much hospitality."

"Oh dear." O'Hickey stirred a heaping spoon of sugar into a cup of hot tea. "Tom."

Byers left the computer station to join Frohike and O'Hickey at the table. "Tom? Pooka magic?"

"Took the poor man for a ride, no doubt." O'Hickey clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Tom can't stay out of trouble for long; 'tis his nature to be pursuing divilment of one kind or another."

Langly returned from a raid on the refrigerator, eating a stack of pickled bologna, cheese and crackers.

"Get a plate." Byers frowned at him, irritated. "And, dammit, I've asked you to wash your hands after you eat PBJs. The keyboard is sticky again."

"I'm beginning to see why you don't miss the services of a housekeeper," O'Hickey said. "You worry at such small matters, lad."

"Leave him alone, O'Hickey. I feel a great kinship with the neat boy-o."

"Tom?"

"In here." The pooka's voice came from the direction of the living room.

Langly stepped back into the kitchen, bending to retrieve several cracker crumbs.

Byers followed the Frohikes into the living room. Tom sprawled in the recliner looking pleased with himself, and very comfortable.

"Your evening’s entertainment has been widely reported," O'Hickey said in a voice of severe disapproval.

"Innocent fun. No one harmed. Nice city." Tom smiled at them. "What are we doing tonight?"

"We're not ..."

"Frohike. Byers. Langly. Open the door." The peremptory growl of a female voice interrupted O'Hickey's stern response.

"Scully." Byers met Frohike's eyes. "You get the code. I'll get the door."

"So you do have female visitors." O'Hickey stood facing the door. "On your feet, Tom."

"She won't see me," Tom grumbled as he got out of the recliner.

"It's not too late for best manners." O'Hickey sucked in a loud breath as Scully breezed past Byers. "By the dancers beneath the hill, nephew ... what beauty's this?"

"Where is he?" Scully glared at Frohike. "Where's Mulder?"

"We haven't seen him, or heard from him since yesterday."

Byers watched in fascination as Scully fully registered O’Hickey’s appearance.

"Frohike?" Scully looked from Frohike to O'Hickey. "Who is this? A relative?"

Frohike cleared his throat. "This is my uncle, Dennis O'Hickey. Visiting."

"Strong family resemblance." Scully’s eyes widened as O'Hickey stepped forward and offered his hand.

"My nephew has neglected to properly introduce us," O'Hickey held her fingers for a moment, eyes glinting with tiny lights reflected from his wire-rims.

"Dana Scully," she said, staring into his eyes.

"I'll be a shellycoat. Dana." O'Hickey released her hand reluctantly. "Omens fall upon me like rain on a miser's wake. She looks like Katherine, Tom. Brighter hair, same bright spirit. I don't suppose you brought the locket?"

"Meg has it." Tom circled Scully. "You're right. Wrong color eyes, and the hair of a Druid priestess ... yet she has a look of Katherine about the mouth and jaw."

"Who's Tom?" Scully regained some of her steam. "And I need to find Mulder. He didn't show up for work today, and didn't call. He's not at his apartment. I know he stole my files on Skinner and gave them to you."

"She can't see you?" Frohike asked Tom out of the side of his mouth.

"No." Tom grinned and sat back down in the recliner.

"We will attempt to find him. But we don’t know any more than you do," Byers said soothingly. "You know Mulder."

"Ask her if she'd like to get naked and go for a bit of a ride." Tom crooked his leg over one of the chair's arms and waggled a foot in Scully's direction. "She looks like a lass with a good seat and clever hands."

Byers turned away from Scully, biting his lip.

Frohike made a strangled noise that he managed to turn into a cough, as something metallic crashed in the kitchen.

"What?" Scully frowned at Frohike and O'Hickey. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Nothing." Frohike hurried forward. "We were going to go out. Show my uncle the town."

"Who's in the kitchen?" Scully asked suspiciously.

“Just cleaning up," Langly shouted. “Every last bit of the mess I just made. Sorry!”

The comment had the effect of leaving Scully momentarily speechless. “Let me know immediately if you find him.” She paused by the front door. "That's what seems weird in here. It smells clean."

"Yes. Of course. We'll get right on that." Surprisingly, Byers’ fingers were rock steady as he slid the bolts.

She stepped out of the apartment backward. "Immediately."

Byers pressed his back to the door and took several long, deep breaths in an effort to equalize an ominous pressure in his chest. Stress and worry, the state of constant vigilance without relief was beginning to have an impact on his mental health. Frohike visited disreputable acquaintances and bars. Langly gamed and attended concerts. It was time he found an outlet, a hobby. Birdwatching would provide a healthy, calming opportunity to destress.

The pressure in his chest seemed to decrease.

"You're no gentleman, Tom," O'Hickey said. "Vulgarity would get you nowhere with a lady of that quality. If you were a real man you would have seen the thirst in her soul, and known what to offer."

Frohike grabbed O'Hickey's arm, turning the older man so the relatives were standing nearly nose to nose. The sight was so strange that Byers lost control and began to laugh in small, girly giggles that felt as horrible in his throat as it sounded in his ears.

"What? What would she want?" Frohike demanded.

O'Hickey shook his head. "Never say you don't know."

"He knows." Byers regained his composure, although he knew he continued to grin like an idiot. "Even Langly knows. Scully wants romance."

"Right now, Scully wants Mulder," Langly said as he left the safe haven of the kitchen. "Maybe we should try to help her."

"Romance?" Frohike sighed and followed Byers into the computer room. "I could give her romance."

"Romance?" Tom snorted and kicked back the recliner, shutting his eyes and crossing his arms. "I think she'd benefit more from ..."

"Shut up, Tom." O'Hickey smacked the pooka's leg as he passed. "What can I do to help?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers in part 1

 **March 13, 1 a.m. Lone Gunmen HQ**

The ringing of the phone startled Byers from his state of monitor-hypnosis. For a second words on the glowing screen danced into double images. He blinked several times, an action that barely helped his vision. His eyelids seemed to be lined with sandpaper.

Frohike picked up the phone. "Hello, beautiful ... no, not yet."

Efforts to retrace Mulder's steps after leaving their building had been fruitless. Working with computers and phones, Byers and Frohike eventually exhausted their usual resources. Langly had been gone for several hours, an effort to contact some of their more elusive sources.

Byers glanced at the time on his computer. It was just past Langly’s limit for checking in. Joints cracked as he stood and stretched. A wave of dizziness reminded him the afternoon granola bar must have burned off hours ago.

"Let me talk to her, lad." O'Hickey took the phone from Frohike. "Miss Scully, it's Dennis O'Hickey. Traditional methods having been mostly exhausted, I may be able to offer you another way to find your friend."

Byers met Frohike's eyes in startled, wild conjecture. More pooka magic? Tom had disappeared shortly after Langly, without explanation.

" ... then meet us here, as soon as you may. I'll explain further when you're with us." O'Hickey replaced the receiver. "She's on her way."

"What are you planning to do?" Byers asked.

O'Hickey patted his pocket, pulled out his golden watch and checked the time. "We could use Tom's presence. I can work the spell, but Tom will be needed to follow the trail."

"Magic. You're going to try and find Mulder with magic." Frohike stared at the timepiece with almost hypnotic fascination. “Is that watch solid gold?”

He wasn’t the only one showing effects of fatigue, Byers realized. He took Frohike by the arm and led him to the table. "Sit down. I'll make instant coffee, or tea if you prefer. Mr. O'Hickey, take a seat at the table. I'd like you to explain what you have in mind. Scully and Mulder are special friends of ours. We don't want either of them harmed."

"I understand you're wanting to protect her." O'Hickey took the chair next to Frohike. "No coffee for me. I don't suppose you've any whiskey?"

"I'll skip the coffee, too." Frohike said. "I've got a bottle I've been saving since Christmas."

Byers opened his mouth, but shut it when he saw O'Hickey's steady gaze and slight head shake.

"Life is short and cold, whiskey is warm," O'Hickey said. "I'll not spend my last few days alive drinking instant coffee -- or even strong black tea -- for stimulation."

Put in that perspective, Byers could only nod. He sat down at the table. "Tell me what you can do to help find Mulder."

"I said, a spell," O'Hickey snapped. "Leave it be for now. I'm not so comfortable with the thought of trying of such a thing. I've been living with heathens and unbelievers too long."

Frohike returned with a bottle and two glasses. He broke the seal on the bottle and poured each of them a double shot of amber liquid.

"What can we do?" Byers watched the men silently toast each other and swallow.

"I'll need a vanity mirror." O'Hickey held out his glass for a refill. "We will need a wild place, somewhere with trees and water, where the city doesn't much intrude."

"Then we will need the van," Byers said. "Langly should be back by now."

"Let me in, man." As if cued, Langly’s voice came shrill over the door speaker.

O'Hickey's eyebrows bristled like live caterpillars as he laughed. "Ask and ye shall receive, lad."

When he opened the door, Byers could see Tom several feet behind Langly, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed.

"He followed me." Langly pulled off his coat and threw it toward the living room. "I got heebie, and everyone picked up on it." Disgust warred with outrage on Langly's face as Tom passed him and took a seat at the table. "Not that anyone knew anything about Mulder. In fact, it seems to be one of those nights when nobody knows nothing."

Byers winced. Langly was pissed off and wired, with an understandably paranoid reaction to Tom’s surveillance. "O'Hickey has suggested a course of action. Scully is on her way here."

"I heard you calling," Tom nodded at O'Hickey. "Did my best to hustle the boy-o back."

"You couldn't just tell me?" Langly waved his hands in the air. "Instead of lurking, disappearing and reappearing without notice? I'm tired. I say let the damn fibbies find their own people when they go missing."

"Mulder's more than just another ..." Byers began to protest.

"FBI?" O'Hickey's inflection was startled. "And Miss Scully?"

"They're both federal agents," Byers said, watching the older man's eyes shift to the pooka and back to Langly.

"Bloody hell. Peelers," Tom said. The pooka's eyes flared briefly red.

"They're our friends." There was a quiet, intense dignity in Frohike’s words. "The fact they work for the FBI is occasionally disconcerting and alarming. But it's not something we hold against them."

"Nor shall we. It's a strange world you live in, nephew." O'Hickey poured more whiskey. He spent a few moments considering the depth and color of the liquor, then downed it with a single swallow. "Now, Mr. Byers, find me that mirror and we'll be ready to depart when Miss Scully arrives."

 

 **March 13, 2:30 a.m.**

There was a strong, raw wind in the park that bit damply on uncovered skin. Byers tried to orient himself on land that should have been familiar, but looked alien and blasted with winter residue. Even though he knew it was barely spring, strong memories of seeing the park sun-warmed and leafy had predisposed him to expect another landscape.

Pale moonlight limned tree branches, tracing swollen buds and tentative bursts of new foliage. Shadows like fast, amorphous animals wrapped themselves around park benches, wove black-on-black designs between tree trunks and bushes. Byers shivered and huddled deeper into his trench coat, wishing he'd thought to put on a wool sweater.

"Are you going to tell me why we're here now?" Scully followed O'Hickey and Frohike down a path that led from the parking lot toward the center of the park. She had been uncharacteristically quiet on the ride away from the city, asking too few questions about where they were going, and why. Her eyes were smudged and weary.

"Just a bit further. I hear water." O'Hickey turned onto a smaller footpath down a gentle hill. "Ah. This is good."

Energized with winter-melt, the noise of a stream filled the air. The footpath ended near a broad, flat stone overlooking water that rushed and churned between moderately steep banks. As O’Hickey stepped into the center of the stone, the wind subsided, leaving the air heavy with a scent of cold, fresh water.

Langly touched his arm. “What are we doing here?”

"It's all right," Byers said softly, although he wasn't sure who he was reassuring, or if everything really was going to be all right.

"Miss Scully." O'Hickey held out his hand. "Step next to me, please. You lads, stay back a bit."

"I'm exhausted, and I'm in no mood for a seance." Scully's voice was brittle. "Why are we here?"

"Patience, lass. Mr. Byers. You brought the mirror?"

Byers stepped forward. “My shaving mirror.”

O'Hickey took the mirror and held the glass so it reflected the moon’s bright face. He began to speak in quiet, liquid syllables that blended meaninglessly with the rush and sigh of the stream.

The tension in Scully's shoulders, the despair in her face, seemed somehow more intimate revealed in a monotone landscape.

Byers felt his eyes burn in sympathy and anticipation. He saw Frohike wipe a finger casually near the corner of one eye.

"Take hold of the mirror, lass." O'Hickey's words were a breath of sound. "Hold it so the moon touches it. Hold the thought of him in your mind. His face, his smell, the sound of his voice... Who is the one you would seek? The moon will know him, the moon will show him."

Scully took the mirror reluctantly. She stared into the mirror. "I look like hell," she said. "Whoever said moonlight was kind ..." Her voice trailed into silence. "I'm gone. I see ..."

Byers heard Frohike catch his breath, felt Langly move forward a step. His hands went out, touching them on either side. "Shhh."

"It's Mulder." Scully's voice came slow and thick. "His eyes are closed. Sleeping, I think. I see a new bruise on his forehead. His face is filthy."

"Tom." O'Hickey stepped away from Scully.

The muffled clop-clip of hooves on stone broke Scully's concentration on the mirror. Byers felt a giddy grin stretch his mouth as he watched Scully examine the dark horse that bent its head toward the mirror she held.

"Where'd the horse come from?" Scully's fingers reached to stroke one silky ear. “You beauty.”

"Keep looking in the mirror. Tom needs to see, too."

"The horse's name is Tom?"

"Miss Scully." O'Hickey backed further away as Tom moved all four feet onto the rock. "Continue."

Scully reluctantly refocused her attention on the mirror. Her shoulders relaxed, her breathing slowed. It was a scene from a dream, or perhaps the prelude to a nightmare, Byers thought as Tom's head hovered above Scully's, a shape as black as shadow under trees.

"It's dark. It's cold. He's hurting."

Byers saw the lovely line of Scully's throat convulse with the effort it took her to speak the words. Frohike made a noise and took half a step toward her.

"Be at ease, lass. It's not so bad as it seems." Tom blew gently against the crown of her head. "I can track him now, with your help."

Scully backed away from Tom, nearly dropping the mirror. "This is a bad joke."

"No joke, Miss Scully. Tom did speak. He's a pooka, and he can take you to your friend." O'Hickey took the mirror from her hand.

"So either you’re insane, or I’m insane, or this is just another bizarre dream." Scully’s lips looked black against skin the color of milk in the moonlight. "You're not suggesting I ride that beast somewhere? Without saddle or bridle? He's as big as a Clydesdale."

"Size is no indicator of the quality of the ride, lass." Tom's shook his mane and whickered at his own joke. "Give her a leg up, boy-o, we need to be moving."

"Safe as houses you will be. A pooka can keep the most unwilling rider on its back," O'Hickey said helpfully.

"Nothing to lose, really." Byers stepped next to Tom's shoulder and offered his locked hands. "I'll give you a boost."

Scully put her foot into his cradled fingers, twined her hand into Tom's mane. She was even lighter than she looked, Byers discovered as he hefted her upward.

Tom's head arched back, eyes glowing red. Scully sat straight, looking down at them like an Amazon queen weighing the usefulness of a bunch of potential cowherds.

"If he spills me on my ass in the bushes, I'm going to kick the shit out of every one of you," she said over her shoulder.

Tom walked briskly off the rock and disappeared into shadow.

"He'll bring her safely home," O'Hickey said at last.

Byers found himself grinning at Langly and Frohike, high on a surge of hunger and weariness induced euphoria. "Scully's a lot hotter than Julia Roberts."

"Caliente big time," Frohike agreed sadly. "Lucky Tom. I hope I dream about this later."

 

 **March 13, Morning's wee hours**

"Where the hell are we?" The horse’s solid back worked beneath her thighs. Smooth, hard muscles rolled against her hands where she gripped coarse, thick mane. There were too many disturbing tactile sensations for Scully to continue to dismiss the ride as part of a dream.

"Riding in shadows between here and there," Tom said. "I'm losing the thread. Think about him."

Night enveloped them. Scully had the impression they walked between aisles of trees, but when she stared hard in any direction except up all she saw was blackness. Overhead milky swirls of cloud spun to obscure star and moonlight.

Scully shut her eyes and thought about Mulder's bruised face. "Where will it all end?" she wondered aloud.

"In the end, if you're lucky, in discovery and heart's ease."

"I don't expect useful answers from a talking horse," Scully said, more to herself than to Tom.

"That's one of your biggest troubles, lass. You've stopped expecting to find answers."

Scully glared at the one red eye she could see turned toward her. "If I had given up on answers, I wouldn't be perched on the back of a mythological creature listening to bits of pub wisdom."

"Ouch," Tom whickered. "Strangely, the thread to your friend seems strengthened by your show of temper."

"How much longer?" Scully tried to see the face of her watch, but it was dark and unreadable.

"Nearly there." Tom's steady walk slowed. "I'll bring you directly to him. There are other souls in the area, but removed from his location. With luck we can get in and out without confrontation."

"Without looking for answers?" Scully couldn't resist asking.

"You have my permission to be satisfied with a rescue this time," Tom said as their forward motion stopped completely. "And don't sputter at me. Get ready."

Darkness evaporated like fog under early morning sunshine. Scully leaned forward, straining to see as Tom took two more steps. Battered walls and the high-trussed ceiling of an ancient airplane hangar solidified around them.

“Mulder.” Scully slipped off Tom’s back.

He was slumped against a heavy wooden tool chest, head on his chest.

"Wake up, Mulder. I’m here." Scully crouched beside him, fingers seeking information on pulse and body temperature. His heart was racing and his skin was clammy with chill.

Mulder tilted sideways from the tool box. Hands and feet were wrapped with layers of duct tape.

"A knife ... I need a knife." Scully steadied Mulder against her body as her fingers worked at the tape in frustration.

"Let me." Tom's teeth worried at the tape. Pieces came away reluctantly, sticking to the hair on Tom’s chin.

Scully helped loosen remaining strips enough to slip Mulder’s hands completely free.

"Oh. Shit. Scully?" Mulder rasped. "What took you so long? I'm cold."

"Can you stand up?" Scully eased him back against the toolbox. His legs jerked under her questing touch.

"A minute." Mulder's eyes cracked open. "Jeez, Scully. You brought the horse. Damn. You aren't really here, are you?"

Tom went down on his forelegs. "Get him on my back."

"Get him on your back? Do I look like She Hulk?" Scully took a deep breath. She wedged her shoulder under Mulder’s armpit. He wobbled against her, almost sending them both to the floor. “Mulder. Walk to the horse. Two steps.”

“Walk to the horse. Talk to the horse. You’re nice and warm, Scully.” His nose lodged itself behind her ear.

"Lean him against me. Good." Tom said approvingly. "Now pull yourself astride, Muldowney, and we'll get out of here before visitors arrive."

"Nice horsie." Mulder transferred his nose to Tom’s shoulder. "Do we get cake later, Scully?"

"You are such a pain in my ass, Mulder," Scully said from between gritted teeth. She put both hands under her partner’s ass and began pushing. "If he’s going to be as helpful as a bag of grain, he’ll have to travel like a bag of grain." She climbed up behind Mulder, locked her legs around Tom’s flanks, and pulled Mulder into a more centered position. "Let's get out of here."

 

 **March 13, 6 p.m. Lone Gunmen HQ**

"Scully? Scully?"

Byers repositioned his bookmark and slid the battered book he'd been reading under the recliner. "Mulder. You're finally awake."

Mulder came upright on the couch. He looked around the room with eyes squinted, forehead furrowed.  
"Byers?"

"How about something to drink? Scully said to give you lots of fluids when you woke up." Byers offered Mulder a glass from a tray next to the couch.

Mulder’s fingers shook as he took the glass. A bit of liquid dribbled over his chin, but he emptied the rest of the water down his throat. "How'd I get here?"

"Scully found you." Byers waited patiently as clarity returned to Mulder’s eyes. "You've got bruises on your face and chest, and needle marks on your arm. What happened?"

“Bushwack.” Mulder groaned and let his head fall back on the pillow stuffed against the couch arm. "I was following Krycek. Someone was following both of us, and I didn't realize it until that someone slammed my face against the side of a building."

"Excuse me." Byers went to the phone, dialed, waited, then spoke two words. "He's awake."

Mulder was on his feet when Byers returned to the living room. "Bathroom."

Byers took his arm and steered him in the proper direction.

"Where's Frohike and Langly?" Mulder shouted through the half open bathroom door.

"Frohike's out getting to know his granduncle. Langly felt a little invaded, so I think he's off with some of his gaming cronies." Byers heard the sound of flushing and running water.

"I think I should lay down just a little bit longer." Mulder's face was damp, the hair about his temples and forehead slicked back by an application of water. "Is Scully coming?"

"She's on her way. Need a hand?"

“No, thanks.” Steadying himself against the wall with one hand, Mulder made it back to the living room and collapsed on the couch.

"Is there anything you’d like to talk about before she gets here?"

"Talk?" Mulder opened one eye. "I'll get enough grief from her. You want a piece, too?"

"We all care about you, Mulder." Byers tried to find the right words to convey the concern that had been eating at him for the last couple of years. "Excuse the hell out of us, but we do. I do. When you see a friend indulging in self-destructive behavior, a real friend says something about it."

"It's a dangerous world, a dangerous job ..."

"Bullshit." Byers felt heat creep over the back of his neck. "I'm no psychiatrist, but it doesn't take a professional to know you've got a death wish. You think you're the one who should have been taken instead of your sister. Your parents never said they loved you when you were a kid. Your first true love preferred getting probed by aliens to having sex with you. Whatever it is, move on and get over it."

“Byers.” Mulder’s eyes were wide open, amazed. “My first true love was never probed by aliens.”

Byers ignored the attempted joke. "You believe you're invincible, that no matter how bad the situation gets, no matter how bizarre, somehow you'll make it back. It's a belief that's been reinforced by numerous unexplained interventions and moments of the purest good fortune." Byers stood up, feeling driven to fully express his misgivings. "But luck, as the Irish say, is a fickle mistress."

"Maybe you're right, I don't think death might be the worst thing that could happen to me. But I don't think I'm invincible," Mulder protested. "Especially when I consider the way I feel when I move right now. Where'd all that come from?"

"It's been strange around here the last few days," Byers said, relieved Mulder was taking some notice of his words. "I had to say it. Can I get you anything?"

"Thanks, I guess.” Mulder settled his head on the pillow. “More water would be good. What day and time is it? How did Scully find me, and where? Everything's a slow blur after I got jumped."

"It's Saturday afternoon, about 6:30." Byers picked up Mulder's glass and hesitated. "Scully can tell you how she found you. I'm looking forward to hearing the story myself."

"I think they took me on a plane ride. A small plane. There was a big open building, like a barn. It was cold." Mulder's voice followed Byers as he refilled the water glass. "I must have been hallucinating. Remember that horse I saw the night I brought you Skinner's work-ups? I thought Scully was riding it."

"Wait for Scully," Byers excused himself. "I'm going to work until she gets here. Would you like to watch TV?"

Mulder shifted slightly to one side. "Sure. A movie would be nice. One of Frohike’s collection?"

Byers looked at the tape protruding from the VCR with a resigned sensation of deja vu. "I am not finding you any porn. Langly was watching _Conspiracy Theory_ ..."

"Great." Mulder punched his pillow into a ball under his shoulder. "I love that movie. Patrick Stewart ... now there's a villain!"

 

 **March 14, 7 a.m. Lone Gunmen HQ**

Byers hit the snooze alarm twice before he mustered the will to get out of bed. When he stepped into the hallway, his nose detected the surprising scent of woodsmoke mixed with coffee. Langly’s door was ajar, his empty rumpled bed visible. Byers followed the smells into the kitchen.

"Morning." Frohike poured coffee into an oversized mug. "The water's hot if you want tea or cocoa."

Byers found a cup, saucer and teabag. He added steaming water from the kettle, then joined Frohike at the table. "I didn't hear you come in. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Frohike shrugged. "No. Dennis and I walked until three or so. Then Tom showed up and gave us a ride back to the park. He'd built a bonfire, and had a bottle ... They told stories until dawn. Tom brought me back here, and took Dennis away. Family business, Tom said."

"Did he tell you anything more about his impending death?"

"I asked, late in the evening. Dennis said it was of little matter. It would happen when it happened." Frohike took a drink of his coffee. "Then he went on with the stories. The stories, Byers ... Dennis has been everywhere. And the things he's seen! What are we doing, stuck here like rats behind the wainscoting?"

"I feel it sometimes," Byers admitted, "the urge to take a plane to some wild, exotic destination. But all things considered, I'm not an unhappy rat. This is my home now." Byers spooned the teabag out of his cup and placed it on the saucer. "After all the weird things we've dealt with, all the frightening, insane situations Mulder's put us in ... O'Hickey and Tom don't bother me like they probably should."

"Yeah. I know." Frohike leaned back in his chair. "A few years ago I would have been going apeshit. I mean, my ancestor was a leprechaun? The only answer would have been heavy-duty drugs."

"You like him." Byers nodded. "I like him too. But how do you reconcile our world with his?"

"That's your best thing, Byers. Knowing the right question to go with multiple choices ..." Frohike's eyes closed. A smile covered his tired face. "Maybe we don't have to. Maybe it's okay to just admit it exists and not sweat the ramifications."

"You don't suppose we're getting smarter as we get older?" Byers asked with a straight face.

"I know I am." Frohike sighed, shaking his head. "And speaking of getting smarter -- where's Mulder? Did Scully take him away?"

"She did." Byers lost his composure for a moment and grinned like a school boy in the presence of his first crush. "I'm glad I didn't miss it. She had to explain to Mulder that she found him using a pooka guide. The subject of your ancestry also came up."

"Damn. I wish I'd been here. How'd he react?"

"With typical Mulder verbosity. I've been reading a book on Irish mythology -- I should just have asked Mulder. He pointed out that real pookas and leprechauns bear little resemblance to their current media counterparts. Irish fairies, the Daoine Sidhe, are older and wilder creatures." Byers finished his tea. "You'll like the next part. He said they're all considered descendants of the Tuatha de Danaan ... children of the Goddess Dana."

Frohike laughed. "Is that for real? I'll bet she loved that."

"She wasn't gentle when she hustled him out of here," Byers said. "Mulder was begging to stay. He wants to meet the pooka and O'Hickey."

"Did you find out what happened to him?"

"Remember the long-haired freak in the surveillance photos? The one they thought might have had something to do with Skinner's condition? Mulder recognized him, and didn't say anything." Byers watched Frohike's face. "Yes. We should have guessed, too."

"Krycek." Frohike's eye began to twitch. "He does keep turning up. How did Mulder find him?"

"It was a fluke, so Mulder says, anyway. He'd been trying to get a location on the smoking man, and Krycek just walked past. Someone else must have been tailing Krycek, because Mulder got jumped from behind."

"Don't you wonder how he’s survived to this point?" Frohike asked.

"It's a bigger mystery to me than the existence of pookas and leprechauns," Byers agreed. Frohike yawned hugely and rubbed his eyes. "You should get some sleep."

"Sounds good."

Byers took their dishes into the kitchen. "Langly didn't come back last night," he called back over his shoulder. "He doesn't do that very often. Did he check in while you were here?"

"No. This supernatural shit bothers him," Frohike said. "More than it bothers us, I guess. And he doesn't like strangers of any kind in his space. He's probably camped out with one of his Dungeon buds."

"I wish he'd call," Byers worried. "Too much has happened lately for him to go walkabout."

"No argument here,” Frohike said. “If I'm not awake by two, give me a yell. If Langly's still not back, I'll go looking for him."

 

 **March 14, 8 p.m. Lone Gunmen HQ**

"Frohike left around three." Byers held the phone cradled to his cheek, typing on his keyboard with one free hand. "He called in an hour ago. He still hadn't found Langly."

"I have something to tie up here, then I'll drop by. You're worried." Mulder sounded indecently cheerful, possibly over-caffeinated.

"We're concerned. He's broken the 24-hour rule ... when one of us doesn't check in after 24-hours, it's serious. O'Hickey and Tom haven't returned either, so I don't have the option to ask for their help right now,” Byers said. “Frohike wanted me to give you a call if he didn’t find Langly by eight."

"Consider me called and on my way."

"Thank you, Mulder." The apartment was uncannily quiet. Byers sat listening to the fans on their equipment hum.

Usually he relished these moments, when the other two men were gone and he could be alone. Solitude had been his drug of choice since fate delivered him into this strange family. Usually he'd make a cup of tea, luxuriate in the knowledge that Langly wasn't camped out in front of the computers eating PBJs, that Frohike wasn't producing something deviant in the darkroom.

Tonight there was no peace, no pleasure in solitude. In his gut Byers knew Langly would have returned to the apartment, or called in by now, if everything was well with him.

Byers closed his eyes and sat, fingers poised but unmoving on the keyboard. Familiar. Safe.

In the quiet, in his mind, Byers examined feelings that came when he thought of his friends and his life. An image from a childhood memory blossomed in the grainy darkness. A slender black cat rolling in a puddle of sunlight, rubbing its fur against hot carpet, stretching its limbs in blissful abandon.

The best of times had been like that. Unforced. Instinctive. Take away the sun, take away the carpet ... well, that left one cold cat.

"Mr. Byers. Do let me in."

The keyboard skidded sideways as Byers' hands jerked in surprise.

"O'Hickey." Byers went to the door, found his fingers trembling on the bolts. "Thank god you're here."

O'Hickey stepped inside. Tom's manshape followed. "Where's my nephew? What's wrong, Mr. Byers?"

"Langly's missing. It's not right." Byers looked at Tom. "Could we find him like you found Mulder?"

O'Hickey and Tom both shook their heads.

"I wish we could, lad. But tonight there's not even the sliver of a moon to be seen. T'will be several nights before that spell might again be of use," O'Hickey said. "Melvin's looking for him, I take it?"

"Yes." Byers locked the door behind them. "And Agent Mulder, as well."

"You're keeping the watch? Well, I'll sit with you, and send Tom nosing." O'Hickey touched Tom's shoulder. The pooka nodded and faded from sight.

Byers found himself staring at the air the pooka had vacated, and realized his fingers were clenched into tight fists. He relaxed his hands and took a deep breath.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. O’Hickey?"

"Thank you, lad. That would be nice."

The lines about O'Hickey's eyes seemed deeper, Byers thought.

"What do you fear, Mr. Byers?"

"I fear ... men who live in shadows. I fear the men and women in malls, who give the shadow men pieces of their lives and freedoms as casually as they give merchants their credit cards. I fear my own impotence to fight the shadow men." Byers took a deep breath. "I fear the loss of my friends."

"Melvin tried to explain what it is you do here," O'Hickey said. "He comes from fighting stock. I think you do, too."

"Against the things we fight,” Byers said bleakly, “that's not enough."

 

 **March 15, 3 a.m. Lone Gunmen HQ**

"He left Stinky's late Saturday night, or early Sunday morning. Stinky didn't remember the exact time." Frohike wolfed down a cold fast-food burger. Cheese on the burger stuck out like plastic molding. Watery red splashes of ketchup accumulated on the table like a serial killer’s Rorschach test.

"That looks disgusting. Please use a plate." Byers slid a saucer under Frohike's hands. "Did he say where Langly was going?"

"Home, Stinky thought. Here." Frohike burped. "Mulder had to give up too. Said if he didn't make it to work in the morning, he really would be unemployed."

"He's not in custody or in the morgue. What does that leave?" Besides dead in a ditch, Byers thought, repressing an urge to verbalize the terrible possibility.

"Who'd want him?" Frohike stared down at the random red blots. He smeared a finger through the one that looked like a bullet hole.

"I can think of a few reasons why they'd want all of us," Byers muttered. "We have to keep looking."

"At least Tom hasn't returned. Maybe he'll find him." Frohike looked over his shoulder toward the couch where O'Hickey slept, snoring loudly. "I'm going to get a couple of hours myself. How about you?"

"I can't sleep." Byers reached for a napkin and began to clean the table. "I'll wake you up at six."

Byers collected and sorted the garbage, cleaned the few dirty dishes in the kitchen, then sat and read e-mail. Questions continued to arrive from subscribers concerned about potential Y2K problems. Most queries could be answered by a Gunmen FAQ Frohike had compiled.

"Where are you?" Byers whispered. He forwarded the FAQ automatically, barely knowing what he did.

"I'm here. But Mr. Langly's still absent."

Byers’ fingers froze. "Tom. Don't sneak up on me. Did you find --?"

"Nothing." Tom's eyes held dancing red sparks. "There's the smell of evil about your neighborhood. I tried to find the source, but this is a strange land to me."

"We appreciate your help." Byers stared numbly at the screen.

"You're past tired, Mr. Byers. Get some sleep. I'll watch for you. If any of these contraptions squeaks, I'll rouse you at once."

"Thank you. For everything, Tom." Byers felt the rush of exhaustion as soon as he stood. "Wake me at six."

"I'll wake you at eight, and that will still be too early. You'll help no one if you're dead asleep on your feet," Tom said. "We'll make some plan between us in the morning. Now, get you to bed."

 

 **March 15, 10:30 a.m. Lone Gunmen HQ**

"It's time to hit the streets." Frohike pulled on his leather jacket. "I'll check with a couple of his friends, then call."

Byers nodded. There was an expression of stubborn, single-minded purpose on Frohike's face that Byers envied. He needed to control his own imagination and focus on the hunt.

"It's raining. Best dress for the damp," Tom recommended.

"This is what I wear when it's damp." Frohike pulled an oversized handkerchief from his pocket and tied it in place on his head. "Are you coming with me, Dennis?"

"Tom will go. I'll wait here with Mr. Byers."

"Call before one," Byers said. "Mulder thought he could get away then if we needed him."

The phone began to ring just as Frohike reached for the last lock on the door.

Byers lunged for the phone. "Yes?" His fingers touched a record button as he said the word. "Langly? Are you all right? ... Yes... I understand." He replaced the receiver onto its base carefully, as though it were made of glass that might shatter under the smallest pressure.

"Play it back," Frohike demanded, stepping toward the phone.

Byers hit the rewind button.

 _"Langly?"_

 _"Byers. Dammit. I've been shanghaied."_ Langly's voice, sounding sharp and stressed.

 __"Are you all right?"_ _

_"If you want to see your friend again, Mr. Byers and Mr. Frohike will be outside your residence in four minutes. Do not try to phone anyone, or use your computers. This is a one time offer. Do you understand?"_ The voice was mechanically distorted.

 _"Yes. I understand."_

Frohike spun around, undid the last lock. "He said four minutes. Let's go."

"Don't be a fool, Melvin. That was a bad man." O'Hickey's hand was on Frohike's shoulder. "You'll be needing help. Muldowney and the beautiful Dana. Tom and myself. Give me your jacket and that head gear. I'll go with Mr. Byers. You and Tom can follow with a rescue."

"It’s a good plan, Frohike." Byers grabbed his own coat. "They'll think he's you."

"I can't send him into danger," Frohike protested. "Can't you and Tom find us?" he asked O'Hickey.

"I could try to hide the whole world over, and Tom would find me out. He's not so sensitive about you, lad. Time's fleeting. Give me your jacket!"

Frohike obeyed.

The result was amazing. With the bandana hiding O'Hickey's greyer hair, he was Frohike's double.

"We do expect to be rescued," Byers said. He saw worry in Frohike’s face as he opened the door. "We'll hang on until you get there. Now -- let's go."

Byers sprinted out of the doorway with O'Hickey on his heels.

 

"Shit. Shit. Shit. I should have gone." Frohike turned his back on the empty hall to find Tom watching him with an expression of sad sympathy that did not seem to bode well. He made the effort and pulled himself together. "What do we do?"

"Lock your door and turn on those fancy gadgets. I've seen what value you place on your privacy." Tom's manshape wrinkled and reformed. "The way we'll be walking has no need of doors or roads."

"Shit again." Frohike did the necessary things on his computer. "I'm not sure about horseback riding."

"You'll be fine." Tom sidled up beside a kitchen chair. "Doomsday devices activated? Then climb aboard, O'Hickey."

Frohike stepped onto the chair and tried to throw one leg over Tom's back.

"Step on the table," Tom recommended.

It gave him the needed height. Frohike pulled himself onto the pooka's back. It was unexpectedly comfortable and stable, but he thrust both hands into Tom's mane and held on tightly.

"Good. Now, I can find bright Dana easily." Tom stepped away from the table. "That one leaves a permanent impression."

"Beauty and brains," Frohike agreed, watching with fascination as the room dissolved around them into foggy nothingness. "If Mulder isn't with her, she'll be able to find him."

Their progress was nearly soundless. Tom walked sedately through billows of thick, dark air. Frohike could hear his own breathing, an occasional snort from Tom, and the muffled, nearly inaudible thud of Tom's hooves against an unknown surface.

"We'll emerge in a structure of some kind," Tom said. "She's near, and I'm transferring to man's space. You'll be invisible as long as you remain on my back. Once you're down, any eyes may see you."

"Will she hear us if I stay on your back and talk to her? I'm not real keen on materializing unannounced around a lot of federal employees."

"She might. But I don't think you need worry. Bright Dana will be able to see us." Tom sounded amused. "Here we are."

Frohike found himself looking at a mirror as the fog evaporated. He turned his head, saw the row of stalls. "You’ve brought us to the ladies room, Tom."

"Lovely. A privy is just the place for a little privacy." Tom whickered loudly.

"Damn!"

It was Scully's voice. From his position on Tom's back, Frohike could see she wasn't in any of the first few stalls.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Scully peeked around the edge of the farthest stall.

The exterior door opened. A secretary entered and walked past Tom as if he didn't exist. She came to a stop, one hand poised on a stall door, when she saw Scully standing in the stall.

"Do you need help?"

"Yes. No." Scully shook her head. She walked briskly to a sink. "I'm fine, thank you."

The secretary disappeared into a stall, quickly.

"We need Mulder. Someone took Langly. They called, told Byers they wanted us, too,” Frohike said rapidly. “Byers and O'Hickey followed instructions, and they’re gone as well. Now you and me and Mulder and Tom have to rescue everyone ..."

"Slow down!" Scully dried her hands on a towel, looking toward the feet under the stall door. "Mulder's in the office."

The secretary shuffled her feet loudly. "Are you talking to me?"

"No." Scully pushed Tom’s head away. “Quit nuzzling my hair.”

"Bring Muldowney back here, and we'll all go after them," Tom suggested, lowering his head to nose her again.

Scully backed up, wiping her cheek. "Don't do that! I'll get him. But I won't like it." She left the restroom sputtering. "Though I have no doubt he'll like it."

With Scully gone, the secretary left the stall cautiously. She paused to hike up her skirt and adjust her panty hose.

"Nice legs. This has possibilities," Frohike whispered in Tom's ear.

The woman washed her hands, fluffed her hair, then left with a final tug at her waistband.

"Have I just discovered the origin of the phrase ...?" Frohike broke off as Tom's tail whipped up and swatted him across the back of the neck. "Ouch! Are you the only one allowed to have a sense of humor?"

The exterior door half-opened. Scully glanced in, holding the door.

"I can't go in there."

Scully pushed the door wider. "I thought you wanted to meet the pooka, Mulder."

"Wow." Mulder’s reluctance to enter evaporated. He nearly pushed Scully out of his way. "I remember you."

"And I remember you, Muldowney. Now, we should vacate the area, I'm thinking, before another lovely lady feels nature's call."

"You can't carry three of us," Frohike protested.

"No, so slide off and give Miss Scully a leg up," Tom said. "You and Muldowney walk on either side of my head, keeping firm contact with my mane. Should you lose your grip, I'll not be responsible for where you end up."

"Miss Scully?" Frohike grumbled as he slid off the pooka's back. "Pretty formal, all of a sudden."

"Shut up, O'Hickey."

Mulder listened with an expression of delight. "Amazing," he said as he boosted Scully upward. "You're a real pooka!"

"Grab my mane, now," Tom ordered, foreleg poised to step off. "We're out of here."

Mulder and Frohike grabbed handfuls of mane. Tom took one step, and the fog rolled in.

"Cool. This is so cool."

Frohike could hear Mulder from Tom's other side. He risked an glance up at Scully, who stared straight ahead, holding herself with nonchalant poise.

"You look good up there," Frohike said. "Natural. Like a cowgirl, or something."

"Cowgirl?" Scully glared down at him. "Are you trying to pay me a compliment, Frohike?"

"Hey, Scully. You do look good on horseback," Mulder broke in. "I'm thinking about that Godiva bit ..."

"Leave her alone, boy-os." Tom rolled one red eye back at Scully. "She is a natural, O'Hickey. But I believe most of the credit goes to me. I'm an easy mount ..."

Scully slapped Tom's shoulder, lightly. "Give it a break, all of you. Frohike -- tell Mulder why we're here with this dirty-minded talking faux-equine."

"Somebody kidnapped Langly," Frohike began, “and now they’ve got Byers and O’Hickey.”


	3. Chapter 3

**March 15, 1 p.m. - A warehouse outside of Washington**

The whole experience felt like classic noir.

A long, black car, opaque windows agleam with the sheen of dead fish bellies, had swept up and disgorged a quartet of men in black. Before Byers could say a word, he had a bag over his head and his hands taped behind his back. The bag smelled dusty, oily and generally unclean. Byers tried to breathe shallowly and listen carefully. Although O’Hickey had only muttered a brief “I’m fine, lad,” Byers could feel the jab of the other man’s shoulder against his biceps.

The ride was leisurely with turn after turn, as if the driver was enjoying a Sunday cruise. They stopped somewhere, briefly. Doors opened and slammed shut, then they were moving again. Noise from the car tires changed as they left blacktop for gravel, then slowed to cross a corrugated metal surface and, finally, what was probably cement.

The limo came to a stop. Fresh, damp air swooshed over them as the door opened and rough hands extracted him from the car.

"Keep moving," a man's voice instructed.

Byers lurched off-balance in response to an ungentle push. Guided by a hand at the center of his back, he walked blindly forward. Something gritty crunched underfoot. "Are you okay?" He kept his voice low, hoping O'Hickey was close beside him.

"I am that," O'Hickey answered.

"Shut up! A cuff to the back of his head made Byers’ ears ring. "Both of you, keep quiet and sit down with your friend."

A quick yank, and the odor of dust and oil intensified as the bag came off. Langly sat with his back against a rusting pickup on a really filthy cement floor. His hair hung in greasy clumps, his glasses sat slightly crooked on his face. He looked deeply unhappy, but unhurt. He looked at O’Hickey and raised his eyebrows.

“Both Frohike and I are fine,” Byers said rapidly.

"I said sit!"

With a sigh, Byers sat down next to Langly, knowing another pair of good trousers wouldn’t make it home unscathed. O'Hickey took a similar position on Langly's other side.

Only two of the men in black remained.

“Bad Ass One and Bad Ass Two,” Byers whispered, earning a snort from Langly.

It was possible that black leather and black denim were uniform for thugs due to their practical, hard-wearing nature. And it certainly was effective visual shorthand for _blunt human tool_. The tools huddled near a beat-up garage door, lit cigarettes and glared menacingly at their captives.

Byers flexed against the restraint on his wrists. It might not be difficult to work loose, he realized. As he continued slow pressure on the tape he examined their surroundings. Dark paper covered the windows overhead. The only light inside came from the space beyond the garage door, and a single shop light behind the junk pickup they sat against.

"You have us here, so what do you want?" Byers asked around the lump in his throat.

"Shut up." One and Two turned their backs on their captives, muttering between themselves.

"I'd really like to see Mulder and Scully kick their way through those two goons right about now," Langly said softly.

"You're not hurt?"

"Shit, I'm hurt. I'm cold and dirty and I've gotta pee," Langly complained. "What's the plan here? Can they find us?"

"They'll find us, Mr. Langly," O’Hickey said with surety.

The sound of an approaching engine brought One and Two back to attention. They flicked away their cigarette butts, and stood side by side as a car without lights rolled to a stop just behind the limo. A single man got out of the car. Silhouetted darkly in the poor light the man paused and rummaged in the pocket of his trench coat. The flare of a lighter flame against a cigarette showed the man’s face in flickering detail.

Byers shivered. _A bad man_ , O'Hickey had said. This was, indeed, a very bad man.

"Hello." The man walked past One and Two without a glance. He stopped a few feet in front of them. "I'm sorry the accommodations aren't better."

Byers watched smoke drift away from the man's face, and forced himself to let his hands hang unmoving behind his back. "Why are we here?"

"Mr. Byers ... Mr. Langly ... Mr. Frohike. May I say, I've been an admirer of your work for some time? Very inventive, all of you." The man smiled, a banal, empty expression that seemed mimicked.

Byers felt his fingers stiffen as if frostbit. "You make a habit of kidnapping and terrorizing people you admire?"

"Actually, you're getting the VIP treatment. You wouldn't want to fly coach with us." Smoking man smiled a crooked yellow smile as he savored his own joke. "You won't appreciate this, I'm sure, but the only reason you're here right now is because I let you live long enough to become of potential use to me."

Langly jerked against his restraint. "You wanna shitcan the preface, man? Why'd your boys bash me?"

"It seemed like a plan they couldn't screw up." Smoking man turned slightly, examined the two waiting hoods. "I've been busy, and couldn't give the -- preface -- my undivided attention. I knew the other two would come quietly if we had one of you." He blew another cloud of smoke and smiled at them. "And you did."

Through the veil of smoke, Byers saw smoking man's eyes pause on O'Hickey. The smile slowly left his mouth. Frown lines deepened. Smoking man's eyes squinted as he stepped closer, bent over and pulled the bandana from O'Hickey's head.

"Well." He stepped back. "I can't even abuse the help. You nearly fooled me -- but you're not Mr. Frohike, are you?"

"And you're not the devil, although I'm betting you've as close a relationship with him as I have with Melvin," O'Hickey said.

"I'm disappointed." Smoking threw down his cigarette and crushed it under foot. "I wanted to settle business this afternoon."

"Might I suggest, whatever business you have with Melvin and his friends be considered settled?"

The menace in O'Hickey's voice surprised Byers. There was a _get out the car and put your hands on the roof_ quality to O'Hickey's simple statement that brought a frown to smoking man's face.

"Are you trying to threaten me?"

Byers shivered again.

"Has it escaped your notice that you're sitting on the floor with your hands tied?" Another cigarette hovered between the man’s fingers.

"Sometimes a man is dangerous in his own right. Sometimes a man is dangerous because of who, and what he knows. Sometimes he's dangerous for all three reasons," O'Hickey said.

The two men stared into each other's eyes. Byers saw the moment when smoking man's expression changed from amusement to deeper consideration.

"Now, I'm believing you're a man wearing all three of those badges. But I don't need to know your affiliations to warn you -- _my_ friends are potentially much more dangerous than yours."

Smoking man's eyebrows raised toward his hairline. "No one has friends more dangerous than mine."

"Ah, you don’t know it all, by any stretch." There was dark humor in O'Hickey's voice as his brogue momentarily thickened. "No man can truly call the divil his frind. And no man can count on the father of lies to keep faith when times are hard,” O’Hickey said. “I've given you warning. Best take heed."

Smoking man rolled the cigarette between his fingers one last time, then returned it to the pack. "I'll keep your ... warning ... in mind."

"Hey, Moll. They look stupid, but bad boys in black leather always get me sooooo hot."

It was a woman's voice, sassy and lilting with pure Irish brogue. Two women strolled from behind the car. They looked like a couple of punk mall rats, one blonde and one brunette. Both wore short red leather skirts, high black leather boots and sloppy white sweatshirts tied at the hip.

"I don't know who they are, but tie them up, too," smoking man instructed One and Two. "Would these be a couple of your dangerous friends?" he asked O'Hickey.

The women stopped just past the threshold. "Tom will be here in a wink. Ready to warm the pipes, Meg?" the blonde asked her companion.

"Aye."

“I’ll warm your pipes, baby.” Badass One advanced on the women with a smirk and swagger, Badass Two close beside him.

Byers saw the brunette open her mouth, then reality seemed to shatter around him. A monstrous sound vibrated against his eardrums and shivered along his bones.

Despair. Anger. Death. The ululating wail conveyed a depth of desolation and impending loss beyond Byers’ experience. When he blinked the tears from his eyes, Byers saw One and Two rolling on the floor, holding their ears. Smoking man held his head. The expression on his face was horrible.

Behind the car strands of fog curled and crept over the cement floor, wreathing the tires in nebulous Victorian swashes.

"That was bad," Langly whispered in a broken voice. "Like fingernails on blackboard, broadcast on cheap speakers with no bass."

Meg and Moll walked calmly around the unconscious bodies of One and Two. Byers saw the blonde take a deep breath and winced as his eardrums popped in anticipation.

Birds on a spring morning. Sunlight over a waterfall. Angels in heavenly chorus.

Byers felt joy rush through him as the woman's voice filled the warehouse, turning it into a cathedral, an opulent opera house, a ...

"They so seldom get an audience. They're showing off a little." Tom's words broke the magic of Moll’s song. With a somewhat theatrical flick of his mane, the pooka stepped out of the fog bank and kicked the front tire on the limo.

Belatedly, Byers began to flex his hands against the tape. "They're banshees, aren't they O'Hickey?"

"Meg the black, Moll the golden." O'Hickey's voice was calm and matter-of-fact. "It's time."

Mulder walked away from Tom, toward the smoking man. He held his gun held loosely, but ready. Scully slid off Tom's back.

"Mr. Mulder. Needless to say, I'm very surprised to see you here. And in such odd company." The smoking man's attention seemed divided between Tom and the sight of Frohike running to join his friends.

Badass One managed to get back on his feet and reach into his jacket.

"Mulder -- they've got guns!" The tape was finally loose enough to wrench one hand free. Byers saw Badass Two fumble at the waist of his jeans as he rolled into a crouch.

"Frohike, move your uncle!" Byers said urgently. Two came up, pointing his gun in their general direction.

"Drop it!" Mulder had One targeted.

"You too," Scully advised Two. She closed until she stood only ten feet behind him, her gun aimed at his back.

It was that precise moment the banshees chose to resume wailing, this time in unison. The combination of techniques was indescribable. Byers pulled frantically on Langly’s taped wrists.

"Don't move!" Mulder shouted.

Byers' eyes jerked away from Langly's scuffed, raw wrists as disaster unfolded in a series of simultaneous movements.

Mulder's gun was aimed at Badass One, but his eyes were on smoking man.

Scully's gun was aimed at Badass Two, who still pointed his gun in the general direction of the hostages near the wrecked pickup.

Smoking man eased toward the far side of the limo, hands clear of his body, obviously empty.

 _We’re in control of the situation,_ Byers thought. As if in a bad movie, One and Two both moved, fingers convulsing around the triggers of their guns. Three gunshots put a percussive finale to the banshee's noise.

Dark, wet stains bloomed on leather and black denim. Badass One and Two flopped on the dirty cement, cursing and moaning.

"Stay right where you are," Mulder warned smoking man.

"Scully. He's wounded." It was Frohike's voice, soprano with distress.

Scully stepped over Two, pausing to kick the gun from his limp hand. She knelt beside O'Hickey and stared in dismay at the spreading red stain on his shoulder. Scully reached for her cell phone.

"Dammit, where are we? We need an ambulance."

"He knew. They knew," Langly babbled as Byers eased the tape from his torn wrists.

"They did." Byers joined Frohike beside O'Hickey. The small man lay quite still, looking up into Frohike's face with a smile that made Byers' gut wrench. He was saying good-bye, Byers realized.

"It was good to meet you and your friends, Melvin." O'Hickey held Frohike's arm tightly. "I should have come sooner, but I'll not go reciting the _if onlies_ and _I wishes_ ..."

"Dennis. Lord." Tom knelt beside Scully, in manshape. Tears dripped off his chin and fell on O'Hickey's cheek. "Tis time to come home. The ladies await."

"You'll be Himself now, Melvin." O'Hickey's voice weakened. "Visit our home, soon. Tom would be glad to guide you."

"Scully?" Mulder’s voice was full of questions unasked and unanswerable.

"He's dying," Scully said softly.

"Melvin." O'Hickey tried to get one hand into an inside pocket on his vest.

"Let me help you." Frohike guided his uncle's fingers to the pocket.

"It's for you, lad." O'Hickey pressed a fabric pouch into Frohike's hand. "Family heirlooms."

Frohike jammed the pouch into his own vest pocket, then took O'Hickey's hand in a tight grasp.  
Byers saw life fade from O'Hickey's face, saw realization and grief take hold of Frohike. He saw Tom stand and throw back his head, eyes closed, as if in prayer.

"I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler, I'm a long way from home ..." O'Hickey half sang the words, his voice trailing away. An expression of peace smoothed his lips slack, and closed his eyelids as his head relaxed against Frohike's knee.

"Miss Scully." Tom pulled Scully to her feet, away from O'Hickey's body. "Mr. Byers, move your friends back a bit."

Byers took Frohike's shoulders, pulled him forcibly to his feet and away from O'Hickey. There was purpose in Tom's face, Byers thought. He looked beyond to where Mulder stood, still guarding the smoking man. The banshees came to flank Tom.

"What's happening?" Mulder asked.

The warehouse began to creak and shake, as if buffeted by a fierce wind. Byers felt the air move past his face, gently at first, then with increasing force. Dirt from the floor whipped into his eyes. The floor vibrated against the soles of his feet.

"Byers."

Frohike's fingers gripped his arm like vises, but the pain disappeared as Byers stared at the place where Dennis O'Hickey's body had lain seconds ago. A blood red dust-devil whirled and danced on the dirty concrete.

"Off home with ye," Tom said softly. "Toward sun, over sea. Through clear skies to our home under green hills and white stone."

The dust-devil passed between Mulder and the smoking man, and paused to hover for a moment. A string of red dust lashed across smoking man's arm.

 **REMEMBER. BEGONE.**

Byers heard the words in his mind. Smoking man clutched his side and staggered toward the limo, lines of agony etched on his face.

Mulder lifted his gun, but stopped the gesture as the whirlwind swept over the car and disappeared down the tunnel.

Behind the limo, the car’s engine fired. It lurched into reverse, skidded around and sped away from the warehouse.

Smoking man, O'Hickey and the two banshees were gone.

Byers gently loosened Frohike's fingers and removed them from his arm. "What happened, Tom?"

"He's flown away home, lad." Tom wiped his eyes.

Mulder cleared his throat. "I read something once. _... if any of the Irish of noble race should die abroad, the dead are so anxious to rest in the ancestral home, that their dust flies on the winds of heaven over land and sea, blasting every green and living thing in its passage as it goes by, until it reaches the hereditary burial ground, and there rests in peace. And this fatal and baneful rush of the dust of the dead ... is called by the people, "the red wind of the hills," and is held by them in the utmost dread._ "

"You're a fount of knowledge, Muldowney."

Scully checked on the condition of One and Two. “Still living,” she diagnosed offhandedly.

Frohike and Langly stood silently, staring at the blood splotched cement.

"Can we go home?" Langly asked.

"Home." Frohike stooped to pick up his bandana. "He said ... visit our home, soon."

"We'll talk about it." Byers took charge. "But first, we need to get Langly home and cleaned up. And Mulder and Scully have two wounded thugs to explain to the authorities, so we'd better get our story in order."

"I am not saying the word pooka to anyone," Scully said. "You're good at concocting stories, Mulder. Give them a hand."

"Okay," Mulder agreed. "But first, I'd better find out where we are. It would be hard to explain how we followed them here ... then didn't know where here was."

Tom moved away from Scully. His manshape altered into horseshape, a fluid exchange that left the eyes of the watcher confused, and the soul joyful. "Why make unnecessary trouble for yourselves? Put them on my back, Muldowney. I'll leave them in an appropriate setting. They'll not babble on about kidnapping and strange occurrences."

"By appropriate setting, you mean an emergency room?" Scully asked suspiciously.

"I'm not the one who shot them," Tom said self-righteously. "Nearest hospital, I dump them."

Mulder and Scully consulted soundlessly, then Scully shook her head. "Okay. You'll probably be a lot faster than an ambulance anyway."

Byers helped Mulder get One and Two onto Tom's back.

"They won't fall." Tom took a step backward. "No one can leave the back of a pooka without the pooka's consent. I'll meet you back at your homestead." He turned and disappeared.

"Shit. He'd better meet us."

Byers looked at Frohike. "Why?"

"I locked everything from the inside, and we left unconventionally," Frohike bit his lip. "I don't know if we can get back in."

"Great. Just great." Langly tried to bend his glasses back into shape. "Please, can we go now?"

Scully stood and brushed off her pants. "I hope the keys are in the limo, and not in the pockets of one of the gentlemen who just left.”

“Not to worry,” Frohike said grimly. “We’re outta here.”

 

 **March 17, 11 p.m. The Rainbow Tavern**

They scrunched into a deep booth, three on each side.

Byers leaned back and took a swallow of the dark brew Tom had ordered for them. It wasn’t too bad, after the second mug. Scully, Mulder and Tom sat across from him. Langly was on his left, Frohike on his right. Between fiddle music and boisterous noise from the crowd gathered to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, it was impossible to carry on a conversation. A relief, really. Frohike tapped his foot in time with the jig the musicians played, stepping rhythmically on Byers' foot with every other beat.

It was, as Tom said, a hell of a great day for a wake.

Concentrating on the color of his porter, and the exuberant music, Byers felt himself drift toward a numb, not unpleasant state somewhere near inebriation. Enough talking had been done in the living room, after sending Mulder and Scully on their way. His own attempt to comfort Frohike had unexpectedly led to a sometimes painful exchange that traced their route from Susanne to O’Hickey’s death. Langly's bouts of self-imposed isolation, retreat to fantasy worlds and recreational stimulants; Frohike's need for family ties, emotional connection and hard liquor; Byers’ own obsession to impose neatness and order on chaos, to maintain the fragile illusion he had some control over his world were all roadside attractions on the journey.

The process had been cathartic, but the intimacy of questions asked and answered left them uncomfortable with each other.

So they sat and drank black porter, and watched Tom dance with women who jigged and reeled energetically on the tiny dance floor near the musicians. Tom eventually pulled Scully up front for a dance, in spite of her vociferous disclaimers and complaints. She weebled back to the booth with flushed cheeks, her shirt slightly untucked in the back. Frohike’s offer to retuck the shirt for her brought even brighter color to her cheeks.

Byers hid his grin in a long swallow of porter.

Scully saw his grin and grimaced at him. Mulder and Tom were shouting at each other over her head. Wedged between them, flushed from dancing, eyes alight, Scully looked almost happy.

Byers finished the last inch of his drink. Almost happy. The way he felt. How strange that such a diverse group of people could be touched by fate, form bonds and become ... family.

Byers felt his eyes water, and surreptitiously wiped them with the back of his hand. Why bother trying to save the world, foil the bad guys and preserve individual liberty if there was no one to share these things with?

Tom slipped from the booth. Byers followed his progress through the crowd, toward the musicians. Tom spoke with one of the fiddlers. He had requested tunes all evening, but this time he took the lead singer's place behind the microphone.

"Tom's going to sing."

Strangely, the noise from the crowd dwindled to a thread of sound as the musicians began the simple ballad. Tom's voice filled the bar. Byers could see in faces of people sitting near them that something personal and private was being touched in each listener.

 _If I had money enough to spend,  
And leisure time to sit awhile,  
There is a fair maid in this town,  
That sorely has my heart beguiled.  
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,  
I own she has my heart in thrall.  
Then fill me with the parting glass,  
Good night and joy be with you all._

 _Oh all the comrades e'er I had,  
They're sorry for my going away.  
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,  
They'd wish me one more day to stay.  
But since it falls unto my lot,  
That I should rise and you should not,  
I gently rise and softly call,  
Good night and joy be with you all._

Tom left the stage. Soft murmuring followed as people toasted him and hugged each other.

Byers reached for the pitcher and filled the mugs. He raised his drink as Tom joined them.

"To Dennis O'Hickey," Byers said as five mugs joined his with a clinking of glass against glass. "Family of my family. May St. Peter treat him kindly."

Tom grinned. "St. Peter won't see him -- unless he comes to one of the dances. Dennis was pagan, and fey to boot."

Tom drained the porter from his mug, winked one eye, then put his mouth close to Scully’s ear. "How about it, acushla? One last sweet ride, my back between your thighs?"

"I'll go," Mulder bounced in his seat. "Come on, my turn."

"You're not my type, Muldowney." Tom shook his head. He stepped away from the booth. "If you change your mind, bright Dana, think of me. And O'Hickey, when you're ready to visit the place where your family's bones rest in peace, think of me."

Tom turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Mulder moved closer to Scully. “How does it feel to know a pooka thinks you’re his type?”

Scully gave him the look of scorn she had perfected during their partnership. She shifted away from Mulder and leaned over the table toward Frohike. "You never told us what O'Hickey gave you."

Frohike pulled the pouch from his pocket. He emptied a fabric sleeve, beat-up leather wallet and what looked like a key chain with a dog-tag attached into the center of the table.

"A locket." Frohike poured golden chain from the fabric sleeve and handed an engraved oval to Scully. "I think it's Katherine. She looks like you."

Scully opened the locket and stared at the yellowed photo.

"She might look a little like Melissa, but nothing like me." Scully clicked the locket shut. "Is that a key chain?"

"I believe it's a relic." Byers nearly laughed at her expression. "Read the engraving on the tag."

Scully examined the ivory-colored object. "St. Patrick's shinbone," she read in a voice full of incredulity.

Frohike collected both heirlooms. He slipped them back inside the fabric sleeve. "All this plus a five dollar bill in a beat up old wallet." Frohike pulled out a creased green bill.

"I thought you gave me that fiver this morning to get donuts." Langly frowned at Frohike. "You must have had two fives. Not the greatest inheritance. You'd think gold would have been some part of a leprechaun's legacy."

"I was positive there was only one five." Frohike shrugged, stroking the wallet. "So it isn’t exactly the crown jools. I'll think of Dennis when I look at these things. That makes them priceless."

Scully slid out of the booth, tugging on Mulder. "Time to go, we have to work tomorrow. I'll get a cab."

Frohike was on his feet. "Thank you both for coming tonight."

" 's all right." Scully hiccoughed, then looked startled. She stepped toward Frohike and kissed his cheek quickly. "I’m sorry you found and lost Dennis so quickly. It was quite an adventure."

Byers moved away from Langly, to give him more room. He watched his friend watching Mulder and Scully leave. Frohike held his fingers to the place Scully had kissed.

"I'm not drinking any more of that black stuff." Langly stretched and let his legs take up the additional room under the table. "But I'll sit here a while longer and listen to the music."

"Sounds good to me," Byers agreed. "Frohike?"

"Uh, yeah." Frohike's fingers dropped from his cheek. "Back in a minute."

"What's he doing?" Langly asked.

“I think -- a request.”

Frohike spoke with the lead singer. The musicians began to play as Frohike returned to the booth. The last of the O’Hickey’s filled his mug and lifted it toward the band. “To Dennis O’Hickey.”

Byers shut his eyes and listened to the music.

 _I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler, I'm a long way from home ..._


End file.
